Image by Johnny Silvercloud, licensed via https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
On Vet’rans Day, I’ll stand, salute, and wish the warrior well
And thank him for his service and I’ll shake his bony hand
If he’s of a mind to talk, I’ll listen as he’ll stories tell
And nod my head as though I understand.
That veteran heard a call to serve his country in her need
And whether born of dreams of glory I don’t too much care
And whether slow of footstep or with all deliberate speed
He answered in the end “I will be there.”
Now serving stateside at a desk or on the battlefield
Each offered up their livelihood until the war was won
Some lost their friends, their minds, their futures — gone without appeal
And some lie under gravestones in the sun
His widow or his widower, his orphan and his kin
Are left behind to piece together what a bullet tore
And tend a mem’;ry rather than a man of bone and skin
A specter, not a visage at the door.
But one thing I will never laud, and that one thing is war
For centuries, we’ve heard it lauded, raised up as a boon
For warriors fight and bleed for causes noble, mad and poor,
While all may choose the lyrics, none the tune.
A farm boy, sunk in doleful chores may wish a freeing wind,
Adventure, burst monotony from milking, mending wire
A city boy bent over keys, on action hope is pinned
Both prey for martial talk (read: gore and mire)
Some seek to further family fame, some status grimly seek
Some wish to manhood quickly climb, some, sweethearts hope to win
All jumbles of Pro Patria are what they dare to speak
For self-regard is now a knavish sin.
But as they march, climb, bayonet to hone their manly brawn
A dark-eyed master plots a movement on a blown-up map
Of main objectives, targets, goals, and arrows boldly drawn
That tens of thousands compass and enwrap.
No matter to this master dark which boys or men might fall
Whose family might grieve o’er empty caskets, gazes, sleeves
A madman’s wild ambition has become the all in all
Who cares what a man in uniform believes?
Their patriotic fervor stirred, their blood a-boil with rage
In portions doled out perfectly; who could the call resist?
Thus lured into the trap, their love of country, turned a cage,
Could form the despot’s dream into a fist.
The war machine grinds senselessly whole men to bone and meal
A courage or a hillside feint are lost when zoomed full out
At last when firing ceases and the scraps depart the field
We find what this was truly all about.
But whether good or ill comes from this exercise in blood
The warrior plunges into homefront burdens left behind
A rent that’s late, and teething child, bills coming like a flood
And nightmares, like to prisoners confined.
The years scroll out, the images of battle dull with time,
Or alcohol, or opiates, each with their price to pay
A worthy life, long-suffering wife, grandchildren in their prime
A campaign hat that covers strands of gray
Old hatreds muted tide by tide, old adversaries friends,
The reasons for the conflict? The end for which we fought?
The demons fought to standstills, and a fitful peace attends
Not sure the lessons learn that we were taught
Eleventh Month/Day/Hour, armistice from doubt impends
Unit cap, and wife in tow, cane and unsteady gait
A “thank you for your service,” now a bony hand extends
Fear, sorrow, guilt, and pride amalgamate